Tactical to Practical
by Gixxer Pilot
Summary: Reese told Leon Tao he didn't play video games. While that might be true, Harold has other plans. Or, "Finch buys a company to keep Reese from kneecapping the rest of New York."
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Tactical to Practical

**Author**: Gixxer Pilot

**Beta**: Wicked Jade (though any and all mistakes are mine)

**Summary**: Reese told Leon Tao he didn't play video games. While that might be true, Harold has other plans. Or, "Finch buys a company to keep Reese from kneecapping the rest of New York."

**Author's Notes**: It goes without saying that I'm a humongous nerd. I mean seriously, I've wandered in from the Star Trek reboot fandom. It doesn't get much geekier than that. I'm also a huge fan of video games, specifically first person shooters. And now, I'm also a huge fan of Person of Interest. Combine those three things, toss in my love of humorous, light-hearted bromance stories and the apparent result is this fic.

Comments and criticisms are welcomed – since this is my first attempt at a PoI story, I just let my fingers do the walking while I test-drove voices and characterizations. Hopefully it doesn't suck. In either case, enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: So this is how it goes: if you recognize it, I don't own it. I'm just along for the ride, as it were.

* * *

2012

"I take it you've gotten our latest number settled back in her home?"

"I'm fine, Finch. Thanks for asking," Reese replied, a lit of amusement wafting through his demure tones. Shoving the gate aside, he strolled into the library and hung his coat on the rack before he joined his partner at the room's central table. "And Sarah Westridge can sleep well tonight, knowing her husband has abandoned his plans to kill her for her inheritance."

"I don't suppose the two bullets you left in Jeffery Westridge's kneecaps, along with a laundry list of contusions and broken bones, had anything to do with that _persuasion_, did it?" Finch asked dryly without bothering to look away from his computer screens.

"He insulted the Army Special Forces. I couldn't let him get away with that." John paused, adding for effect, "And he wanted to kill his wife. Both were unscrupulous actions."

Finch harrumphed under his breath. "Even if he's a Force Recon Marine who called the Green Berets, '_Pansy-ass wannabes who never saw any real action_,' was it really necessary to resort to that level of violence?"

"I was there to save his wife. Showing him Army trumps the Corps was a two-for-one. Pretty efficient I think," Reese said, snagging a bottle of water from the mini fridge and twisting the cap open. He took a long pull and asked, "Do you think it was too much?"

Harold shot his employee a scathing and disapproving look. "I've just seen his x-rays, Mr. Reese. I can, without a doubt, confirm that it was overkill." Finch shifted in his chair. He hated to feed the beast as it were; he knew cases of domestic abuse was a glaring hot-button for John, but Finch found he couldn't stop the affirmation from tumbling from his mouth. His lips set in a grim line, he looked Reese in the eye and said, "Even if Westridge deserved every bit of what you gave him."

John's eyes wafted over towards the cracked board the two men used to track the progress of their cases. Finch had taken all Sarah Westridge's information down prior to Reese's arrival. He cleared his throat, cutting through a bit of the tension in the room and moving towards more neutral topics. "Nothing new, Finch?"

"No, strangely," the billionaire replied, tapping away at the keyboard.

"Well, then I think I'll head home. I have firearms to clean."

Finch barely restrained the urge to roll his eyes. "Actually Mr. Reese, if it's not too much of an imposition, I'd like you to table that plan." Finch's hands stilled instantaneously, his posture going rigid all at once. "I've made an appointment for you and I would very much appreciate if you'd keep it."

Reese stopped abruptly and executed a textbook about-face. He sauntered back towards Finch, his expression flicking between incredulity and outright surprise. "You're not trying to set me up on a date, are you? Because the last time you did that, things didn't go well."

"Heavens, no. Miss Angelis was a Number, not a potential match. And Miss Morgan is…Miss Morgan," Finch said, not bothering to suppress the shudder than ran through his body. "No, I was hoping I might convince you to lend a hand to a company I've recently acquired. Their research and development group could make use of your rather unique skill set and expertise."

"A company? What would one of your companies need me for?"

"It's rather a complicated matter I'm afraid. You see, this is a fairly well known company with very lofty expectations weighing on it. Recently, there have been some internal struggles; dismissals of top leadership, lawsuits, half the company's employees resigning abruptly, that sort of thing."

"It's a rudderless ship," Reese supplied, tossing the empty water bottle in the trash situated next to Finch's leg.

"To put it mildly, yes."

"And those mass resignations? Most of them were what type of employees, exactly?"

"Research. Specifically, those who focused on making the product as realistic as possible." Finch stood up, rubbing at a particularly stiff bundle of nerves near his left oblique. Hobbling over towards the small cabinet used to house random photos and documents, Harold selected a manila file and produced a piece of paper with printed list of names. He held it out to Reese, returning to his chair as the paper changed hands. "The resignation of those twenty-three people may have very well sunk the company. They were halfway through developing their latest project, but without their essential employees, meeting their obligations will be a tall order to say the least."

Reese's eyebrows furrowed together as he read off the names on the list. "So if this company is going down faster than the Titanic, why buy it? That's not like you."

Finch's fingers stopped typing for a split second. He turned his entire torso to face Reese, and with a lift from the corner of his mouth, he said coyly, "Let's just say I was being optimistic."

Reese shook his head, pointing the list of names at Finch. "You hired _me_ to improvise. _You_ don't do anything that's not perfectly orchestrated."

_Busted._ Finch's face fell. Quickly masking his surprise, Harold turned back to his computer screens. "Well yes, Mr. Reese. Though I perused the company's financials and business proposals filed with the SEC since its inception before I made my offer, my decision in this case was far more utilitarian than anything else."

Reese titled his head down, giving Finch the universal (or at least the John Reese) sign for 'go on'.

Harold laid the palms of his hands gently on the desktop, stating somewhat haltingly, "To be perfectly frank, it's to keep you from killing people unnecessarily."

John raised an eyebrow. "Thanks to you, I don't do that anymore, Finch."

"No, you don't outright kill them. You either kneecap them or you just, as Detective Fusco puts it, 'Break their faces'. I'm sure Mr. Westridge can attest to your prowess in that area."

"Well, it works," Reese said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "Why mess with success?"

Finch sighed. "That is exactly my point. Although I'm far more solvent than most of the world's governments, I do prefer that my resources go towards more _positive_ projects every now and again."

"Isn't that what the Machine was for?"

"Yes, but the Machine is a macro element. This would be more of a micro-scale project."

Reese let his eyes wander up to the ceiling, cataloguing each crack, spider web and water stain of the old building. He returned to 'his' chair, the one adjacent to Finch's table, sprawling in it inelegantly. John drummed his fingers against the pockmarked and scarred wood while he eyed his employer critically. "You've never had a problem with my methods. Why bring it up now? You knew what you kind of man you were getting when you hired me."

Finch sighed, looking down at his hands resting insipidly in his lap. "Yes, yes I did, Mr. Reese. Please accept my apologies – the harshness of my statements were uncalled for." Finch shifted in his chair, shoving aside the keyboard and camera joystick. Looking Reese in the eye, he said earnestly, "Think of it is as 'something to do', John."

Silence. And then, after a long pause, John's head tilted back and forth. "All right. I'll bite. This company? What is it?" Reese asked.

Though he tried desperately to temper his enthusiasm, the relief that flowed through Finch's frame was obvious. "Tell me: have you ever heard of a developer called Infinity Ward?"

A pause as Reese searched his memory for any such name. "No. Can't say I have."

"I'm not surprised, if I'm honest. You're not exactly their target demographic, though men our age are hardly ignored by their marketing strategists."

"Finch," Reese began, leaning into Harold's personal space. He blinked a couple of times as a smirk crept up the corners of his mouth. "What is it?"

"Perhaps it would be better if I showed you," Harold said, pulling the keyboard and joystick closer to his chest. He punched in a couple of commands on the keyboard and in an instant, the screens cleared of the Machine's data, replaced instead by images that made up the utter chaos of combat. The speakers well integrated into the wall hummed to life, spitting out the soundtrack of a battlefield; the rat-tat-tat of small arms fire melted in with the urgent shouts of the combatants as the scream of jet engines roared through the sky. Explosions rocked the screen, sending debris and shrapnel flying in every direction.

Reese's eyebrows jumped a couple of notches on his forehead. Had he really gotten _that_ old? John knew that computers and video games had come a long way, but this was incredible. He could almost feel it – the heat on his face from exploding ordinance, the sweat running down his back and under his body armor, the pounding in his chest that was his own heartbeat as adrenaline coursed through his system. His fingers twitched as he watched the screen, his muscles wanting desperately to reach for the magazine release on the rifle that wasn't actually in his hands.

"What you're watching is Infinity Ward's last offering, Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3. I thought, with experience from your former MOS and some of the more…clandestine experiences, you'd be able to offer the much-needed insight. I'd like you to work with the project leads to help them craft a realistic storyline," Finch told him, almost as if he were reading the reheating instructions on last night's pizza.

Literally ripping his eyes from the demo, John pointed one finger towards the screen as a couple of brightly colored printed pages, the game's summary, appeared under his nose. "You want me to help develop a video game?" he asked as he accepted the literature from his boss.

"Yes, Mr. Reese. I do. Will that be a problem?"

"That depends. It sounds like there's a lot of work to be done here."

"The time commitment will likely be minimal. Expect planning meetings, perhaps a few brainstorming huddles and maybe a motion-capture session or two, just to make sure the illustrators are getting it right." Finch held up a hand. "I will ensure that anything you do for Infinity Ward will not interfere with your work on the Numbers."

John's attention returned to the game. His eyes sparkled and, before he could stop it, a full-fledged smile bloomed across his face. Tilting his head to the side, he said succinctly, "If you can guarantee that, then no, it won't be a problem."

In fact, this might actually be…fun.

Imagine that.

* * *

**Next Up**: Fusco has a horrible, no good, rotten, very bad day. And it's all courtesy of John Reese.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes**: To be honest, I wasn't entirely thrilled with the last chapter. While Reese's voice comes pretty naturally to me, Finch's (and indeed his thought process) does not. Unfortunately, I feel like it showed in the dialogue exchange between Reese and Finch. Or I'm just being overly picky, because I'm used to writing Kirk, McCoy and Pike from the Star Trek fandom – three characters I could literally write in my sleep. In any case, Fusco's voice comes as easily to me as Reese's does, so I'm hoping this chapter will fare a little better.

**Disclaimer**: Still not mine? No? Really? Damn. All right, if that's how it's going to be, then I guess I'll have to claim no money made from anything I write. I do it only to appease my muses.

* * *

2013

Lionel Fusco was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a philosophical man. He took things as they came and at face value, both good and bad, and made with them what he could. But even he had to admit that every now and again, he wondered how different his life's path might have been had he followed through on Stills' order and left Reese rotting somewhere in Oyster Bay. Left him _dead_ – emphasis on 'dead' – and rotting somewhere in Oyster Bay, specifically.

One thing was for sure: one actually dead John Reese would have meant a lot fewer headaches for the beleaguered detective, his current predicament being no exception. Fusco really thought that this time he might actually kill the man, CIA-trained weapon of destruction be damned. It was one of those days that Lionel wished he spoke a language besides English, because cursing someone to the seventh layer of hell in Russian would probably have been a lot more entertaining than doing it in English.

For the fortieth time.

In the last half hour.

November in the northeast was always predictably unpredictable; Fusco spent the better part of the day wishing the weather would shit or get off the pot. Rain _or_ snow – not both, and certainly not both at the same time, and especially when he was forced to tail the Mystery Boys' latest infatuation on foot through half of Brooklyn. By the time Fusco slid, boneless, into his cruiser, his shoes were soaked, his slacks were ruined (courtesy of a FedEx truck who Lionel swore was aiming for the puddle at the corner), his tie was missing (he had no idea how or where he lost it), and his hair was a hopeless, tangled mess (probably from pulling it by its roots in frustration). All he wanted to do was go back to the station, change into something dry and have a scalding cup of coffee to warm up. And maybe shoot John, if he could find him.

It took three tries after he pulled the car into the lot reserved for fleet vehicles at the 8th, but eventually the detective managed to summon the energy to peel himself from the driver's seat. Digging through his pocket, he checked his phone, thankful it survived the trip through the great outdoors. He let out a sigh of relief that he hadn't missed any calls from Lee or his ex; pissing off Lee's mother was the last thing he needed now. Lionel sighed and trudged up the cement stairs, glaring icy daggers at anyone who dared look at him on his way in as he made a beeline for the locker room. Fusco tossed his destroyed suit in the garbage, threw on his street clothes and made his way upstairs to the precinct's crash pad for a little R&R.

Though the layout resembled a scaled-down army barrack, the creature comforts adorning every available nook and cranny of the room spoke to the more civilized (and downright childish) nature of the inhabitants. A small refrigerator sat tucked away behind one of the bunks; resting on top of that was a microwave that actually worked. A coffee table, fully stocked with an assortment of sporting, firearms and Maxim magazines respectively, hid behind a privacy curtain that separated the bunks from the recreation area. Above the coffee table, someone had the foresight to install a TV, complete with a Playstation 3 propped up on a shelf just adjacent. Soda cans and food wrappers littered the area near the trash can; clearly, the desk sergeant hadn't been up here in a while to remind his underlings to clean up after themselves.

Fusco snorted as he walked by, giving the handful of patrol cops playing Call of Duty a quick nod of his chin. He shook his head, wondering when blasting away at computerized bad guys in Kevlar vests replaced bonding time over a cup of bad coffee and good conversation at a local diner. Pushing the thought from his mind, Lionel flopped down gracelessly onto one of the eight bunk beds lining the small room and attempted to block out the sound of the game coming through the TV's speakers.

The edges of sleep were tugging relentlessly at the detective's subconscious, willing him to give in. But there was something familiar about the dialogue wafting from the game a few feet away. It was almost as if he'd been there, as if his brain could fill in the conversation and supply him with the visuals before it actually played out on the screen. With a hearty groan, Fusco cracked his eyes open, propped his face up on his fist and watched the game's cut scene play out.

If he didn't absolutely and unequivocally detest John Reese when he was wringing the water out of his unmentionables, he most certainly _hated_ the guy now. Lionel reminded himself to breath – in and out, in and out, slowly and in control – while he tempered some rather robust homicidal urges that popped forth in his brain. He felt the tips of his ears go pink as his blood rushed through his body. Equal parts embarrassment and anger flooded his system as Lionel watched as a brief snippet from his life play out on the game's screen.

High-ceilinged, half-empty warehouse? Check.

The pair of protagonist characters tied to chairs? Check.

Psychotic Aryans with very large bolt clippers, too much testosterone and not enough brains? Check.

One anxiety-ridden, barking Belgian Malinois? Check.

One figurative lone wolf, forced to his knees by a blow to the back of his neck, with a maniacal gleam to his eyes? Check.

Fusco all but sighed, remembering to keep his jaw closed as to not draw attention to himself. He knew what was coming next even though he couldn't completely make out the exchange of dialogue. The sharp staccato barking continued, matched a half-second later by a throatier set of foreign words Lionel still had yet to master. The incessant sound stopped instantaneously; it was followed by one more command, softer this time, almost careful. Fusco heard the pitch of the game's music ratchet up in anticipation as the patrol cops took back control. An exchange of gunfire, some fisticuffs and the man with the bolt cutters thrown through a broken window later, the three protagonists managed to free themselves from their binds and were on their merry way to their next mission.

Knowing sleep was all but futile, the detective rolled off the bunk and snagged his phone from his jeans pocket. What he was about to do probably wasn't classified as wise, but Fusco's slightly wounded male ego quickly cast aside logic in favor of retribution. Pulling up Reese's name from the list, Lionel dialed the number, found the inside of the supply closet and waited for a response.

'_Hello, Lionel. Did you miss me?_'

Fusco all but growled at Reese. "Like hell. If you were standing in front of me right now, I might actually shoot you."

'_And here I thought we got along so well. What have I done to deserve this kind of hostility?_'

"Well for starters, you and Glasses dragged me halfway around the world today. In the snow and the rain, I might add. You know, you boys don't pay me enough for this kind of shit and it's starting to piss me off," Fusco exclaimed, stabbing one finger through the air as if Reese was standing in front of him.

John huffed, no doubt smirking the way he did when he was just about to start a fight. He let out a breath and asked simply, '_And?_'

"'And'? What the hell do you mean, 'And'? That's it?" Fusco half-exclaimed, right hand shooting out at his side as he gesticulated animatedly in the empty room.

'_Well you say this like I should be concerned_.'

Lionel barely resisted the urge to slap himself in the forehead. Shaking his head, he said to the ex-CIA agent, "Has anyone ever told you what an ass you are? Because if they haven't, let me be the first to say it. You're an ass."

'_Well, I'm glad to know I'm so popular with you. Now what's your point?_'

Fusco snorted out loud. "My point is that, after I finally get back to the house to clean up, I go up to our crash pad to find a small army of flatfoots playing Call of Duty. And what do I see on this video game?" Fusco stopped for dramatic effect, swallowing hard a couple of times to wet his mouth.

'_Well, I don't know, Lionel. I haven't honed my psychic abilities well enough yet to see the world through your eyes_,' John replied.

Fusco ground his back molars so hard against each other he was certain his dentist was cringing on the other end of New York. "Let me tell you what I saw, Reese. I see a scene that's scarily similar to the predicament of one Leon Tao in the middle of Call of Duty. Complete with an angry Belgian dog and Aryans wielding large bolt cutters. You wouldn't happen to know how that wound up in the game, would you?" he asked accusingly.

'_Why do you automatically assume it was me? As you mentioned, Leon was there, too, and he's a much bigger pain in the ass than I am._'

Lionel snorted. "That," he began, "is highly debatable. You're always a pain in my ass, and this? This has your name written all over it."

Some shuffling on Reese's end of the connection made its way through the feed. '_You're right_,' the former CIA agent admitted almost smugly.

Caught completely off guard by John's confession, Fusco sputtered out a few choice curse words intermixed with half-sentences, trying desperately to bridge the gap between his brain and his mouth. Lionel closed his eyes, took a breath and finally said, "So lemme guess: one of your aliases found a new career."

'_Something like that. Finch insisted_,' Reese said casually.

"Just my lucky day." Grumbling, Fusco grabbed a seat on top of a five gallon bucket while he propped his feet up on the shelf next to the toilet paper rolls. "So you want to tell me what the hell you were thinking? Because let me tell you – you should stick to kneecapping people if your secondary career is to embarrass me every chance you get," Lionel said, huffing out a large breath at the end of the sentence.

'_Lighten up, Detective. It's for your own good.' _

"Yeah, I don't see it that way."

_'Our mutual experience with the Aryans worked perfectly with the storyline.' _Reese's end went silent for a beat. When he spoke again, his tone was different. Lighter, still antagonistic, but almost friendly, if only in a slightly psychotic way. '_Besides, I left out the part about the ball gags during our planning sessions_.'

Fusco opened his mouth to reply, to attempt to tear Reese a new one over the phone, but tell-tale click in his ear told him Reese terminated the connection. "Asshole," he muttered under his breath. Glaring at his phone, he gripped the plastic device so tight his knuckles turned white. The detective pursed his lips, shoved the phone back in the pocket of his pants and ran one hand over his face. He killed the light in the storage room, threw the door open and stepped out into the entropy that was the 8th precinct.

Yeah, fuck John Reese.

Pain in the ass.

* * *

**Next Up**: "John Reese from Lionel Fusco at 11.46 of the second period. Reese from Fusco at 11.46." Or, Fusco proves there are some things even Wonderboy can't do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes**: I tried to keep this story a one-shot. Like most everything I write, it didn't work. I didn't have any idea how to end this story originally – all I knew was that I wanted to show that Fusco is a badass, too, even if it's unintentional. I nearly gave up on it until I discovered Kevin Chapman and I share a mutual love (okay, mine's more like an obsession or a way of freaking life) of hockey. They always say, 'Write what you know,' so I figured it I'd do just that. I mean, there has to be _something_ Fusco can do that Reese can't, right?

**Disclaimer**: Still not mine. The Crossing would have ended a lot differently if it were. No money made; please don't sue.

* * *

As it turned out, it hadn't been John Reese's best day.

Despite Finch's misgivings about his employee's…enthusiasm during cases that involved children or battered women, even Harold was hard pressed to refute that their newest Number didn't have an ass-whipping coming to him. Men like Martin Provost, mediocre ice arena manager moonlighting as a (horrible) contract hitman, often made John scratch his head in consternation.

That man had been the fastest sperm? _Really?_

Unfortunately for the ex-CIA agent, Provost compensated for his lack of brains with sheer muscle. A lot of it, and most definitely aided by a serious abuse of anabolic steroids. Provost had been dumb enough to keep his entire stash of needles and vials in a tool chest in the maintenance room of the rink. When Reese smashed the drawer over Martin's head, destroying every single item in the process, it only served to enrage the already unstable man further.

From there, all bets were off and the brawl was on. Normally, that wouldn't have been cause for any kind of concern, but Martin's combination of muscle, unbridled rage and an ability to punch another person in the face while balancing on a piece of steel an eighth of an inch thick were skills that got Reese's attention.

Apparently, as John was in the process of discovering, hockey had taught the Montreal native Provost how to fight.

Check that.

Apparently, hockey had taught the Montreal native Provost how to fight **_on a freshly resurfaced sheet of ice_**.

The skirmish that started in the maintenance room, one that had already netted Reese a couple of cracked ribs and a quick dunk in the vile slush pit used to empty out the Zamboni, spilled into the player's benches ringing the rink, then into the penalty boxes (fitting, John thought even though he didn't really know the first thing about hockey) and finally on to the ice surface itself. The rink was dark, abandoned for the night by even the most die-hard adult league players. The smell of propane spewed from the Zamboni hung in the air and a small layer of fog condensed low against the boards, disrupted only by the obscure shapes of two men as the pair went tumbling and skidding across the flat surface.

Reese resisted the urge to look down, lest he earn himself a punch for his troubles. The sensation under his feet was like nothing John had experienced before. Sure, there was that time in Russia when he'd managed to pick a fight with a mob boss' group of enforcers on top of a frozen lake, but that had been much different. It was natural ice, pockmarked and full of ridges formed by wind as the surface froze over. Healthy helpings of snow gave him traction and John dispatched his would-be attackers with relative ease.

But this time, Reese's feet fought to find purchase against the slick, perfectly flat and smooth, meticulously maintained surface. The dress shoes definitely didn't help, but he couldn't blame his lack of coordination solely on his choice of footwear. Provost, on the other hand, was seemingly unaffected by the change. His movements were still quick and precise, accurate to a 'T' as he reached across and grabbed the lapels of John's overcoat. Provost grabbed a fistful of fabric and a healthy portion of Reese's skin, locked out his left arm out and went to town throwing haymakers with his right.

Reese managed to duck the first punch, but the second caught him flush in the mouth. He added 'dental work' to the list of things he'd need to do that week as he spat out a chipped portion of his tooth. Linking his hands over Martin's left arm, John pulled down as hard as he could, trying to break the man's grip. He spun quickly, shimmying out of his soaked overcoat before he tossed it haphazardly across the rink. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Reese heard it land with a wet 'plop' near the blue line.

Provost, unwilling to concede the upper hand in the fight, reached out again, fingers clawing and tugging at John's suit jacket. Reese felt the immediate temperature change when Martin yanked the expensive black garment clear over his head. A blast of cold air against bare skin followed as Provost ripped John's white shirt and undershirt from its connection with his pants, pulling both over the ex-agent's head with near surgical precision. Temporarily blinded, Reese ate a couple of strategically placed knees (John briefly wondered if that was very sportsmanlike in hockey) before he could push his shirt out of the way enough to see what he was doing.

But Reese was nothing if not resilient, hard-headed and incredibly stubborn. Dropping to one knee, John rolled onto his back, cringing as he felt the cold burn of the ice against his skin. He used his shoulders to initiate a half spin, kicking his right leg out as hard as he could. He felt his foot connect with Provost's meaty leg, but didn't hear the telltale 'splat' of the man's weight falling to the ice to join him. Instead, all of the air previously stored in his lungs whooshed out like a backdraft, leaving him breathless and gasping when Provost's knee slammed into his prone chest.

John brought his right hand up to shield his face, squirming and bucking underneath the weight of the much larger and taller man. Reese resisted the urge to roll his eyes as images of the giant Aryan leader he tried to fight when he first met Leon Tao flashed before his eyes. Or were the snippets of memories due to lack of oxygen? Reese was pretty certain that Provost, somewhere during the fight, managed to sink a tattoo-covered forearm underneath his chin and was putting considerable pressure onto his carotid artery. Unconsciousness, if he didn't do something quickly, would swallow him whole in about fifteen seconds.

When times got tough, the tough fought dirty. Reaching up, Reese took his own advice and went for Provost's throat, punching the behemoth of a man in the windpipe. The strike didn't land exactly flush but it was enough to give John a moment to break free. He pulled his legs loose, kicking as hard as he could as he propelled his body backwards, skidding across the ice.

Provost, undeterred, shook his head once, went red (redder) in the face and then launched himself at Reese. He landed on top of the smaller man and began raining down punches with ferocity that John hadn't seen in a very long time. The ex-op managed to block a few of the strikes, but he couldn't stop them all. He felt his nose pop when Provost's fist connected with the soft cartilage in between his eyes and tasted the coppery tang of blood as it streamed down the back of his throat. A punch to the cheek had Reese's head bouncing off the ice, stars floating in front of his vision.

This was bad.

Two more blocks, one more hit and John was wondering just how long he'd be able to hold out. Going for his gun wasn't an option; his Sig was somewhere in the bottom of the Zamboni pool in the maintenance room, lost when Provost dunked his head and most of his torso. Reese was about to go for his last-ditch play – the eye strike he'd taught Finch – when Martin suddenly stilled above him.

Reese couldn't see what was beyond the boards, but he could certainly hear it. It wasn't loud enough to be a gunshot, but the staccato note was definitely emphatic enough for the sound to roll around the curved ceiling of the ice rink. Provost's head snapped backwards, his hands flying to his face. His entire body stiffened, all momentum coming to a screeching halt an instant before he crumpled like a puppet to the ice surface.

John lay on his back, chest heaving, as he gasped for air. He titled his head to the side, watching with a bit of a amusement as blood from his nose dripped down into a small puddle near his face. The ice felt good on the bruises; perhaps he'd stay here for just a little bit. A small black disc rolled harmlessly on edge by John's prone body, leaving a little bloody line on the ice in its wake. Reese's eyes followed the object as it slid closer to his side, stopping it when it came to rest against his shoulder. He picked it up, flipping it over in his hands. Rubber. Dense. About six ounces. Three inches wide.

Nice. Someone hit Martin Provost in the head with a hockey puck.

A flash of movement caught his sharp eye on the other side of the glass near the door. John stiffened, looking around for anything useable as a weapon.

"Now, I'd better not hear another damn word about Aryans, Belgian attack dogs or ball gags. I saved your ass - again - so I would appreciate a little respect," Fusco called as he made the doorway, hockey stick still held at his waist in a shooting position.

Reese let a teeny bit of tension bleed from his shoulders as he saw Lionel step on to the ice. "What are you doing here, Detective?" he asked through the fine tremor in his voice, courtesy of the impending adrenaline crash.

Fusco let out a low whistle, cataloging the moment for posterity's sake. At seeing the normally impervious ex-CIA agent flat on his back with blood streaming from his nose and a couple of new bruises blossoming across his chiseled features, Lionel fought the compulsion to laugh. Flattening his tone and schooling his expression to neutrality, Fusco replied, "Glasses got a little worried when he couldn't reach you and asked me to check it out. Looks like he right to send in the cavalry," as he offered John a hand up.

John winced, stuck the palm of his hand on the cold ice surface and rolled to his knees, grasping Lionel's forearm in the process. Accepting the Kleenex from Fusco, Reese gingerly stood, straightening his spine with as much dignity he could muster as he rubbed unconsciously at sore spots on his elbow and hip. Looking the detective in the eye, he desperately tried to ignore the water dripping off his hair and blood running down his face as he replied, "I had it under control, Lionel."

This time, the detective actually snorted out loud. "Yeah. That's why it looks like you've been busy having your suit pulled over your head in true hockey fashion before you went a couple with Bob Probert." Fusco looked down, noting the puddle of water beginning to pool at the ex-op's feet. Raising an eyebrow, the detective tapped the blade of the hockey stick in front of Reese's feet and added, "…And why you're soaked to boot."

"I was just strategizing," John said with a sideways glare as he tucked the tails of his white dress shirt back into his pants, cringing at the cold contact against his skin.

Lionel stuck the bottom edge of the hockey stick's blade into the ice and laid his palm over the butt end. Pillowing his chin on his knuckles, he asked incredulously, "At the bottom of the Zamboni pool? Gross, by the way. Do you know what kind of collection of spit, puke and blood is in that cesspool?"

"No," John began, straightening his suit jacket into something that might resemble order. "I-," Reese started to say before he fell silent, face paling as he realized what Fusco was telling him about the Zamboni pool.

Lionel nodded, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "That's what I thought. You know, this is the second time I've seen you 'resting' during a fight. That's pretty close to losing I think. And by my count, this makes twice now. So what gives?"

"Nothing 'gives', Lionel. He had an unfair advantage," Reese replied as he looked around the arena. His eyes slid down to the prostrate Provost on the ice, John stopping himself just short of kicking the man. That wouldn't have been very couth, even if the man deserved it.

"Like hell. The ice just evened the score." Fusco paused, narrowing his eyes as he watched John's sharp eyes bounce around the rink. "Oh, and if you're looking for your coat, it's over by the far blue line. But you might want to grab it quick-like, before it freezes to ice."

The ex-CIA agent fixed Fusco with a disapproving stare, but the normal piercing gaze lacked its normal weight and intensity. Behind it, Fusco swore he saw a hint of embarrassment with just a tiny touch of…was that _thanks_?

Fusco's eyes glinted in the low light. "You're welcome, by the way," he said with a wave of the stick towards the still unconscious Provost.

Reese grunted. "Yes, about that. Finch is going to be very disappointed that you've killed someone. He frowns on that sort of thing," John halfheartedly scolded.

The detective threw his head back and laughed. "He's not dead, Reese. It was just a little snap shot to the head."

"Snap shot?" Finch's poorly trained attack dog's eyebrows climbed his forehead. "Sounds cruel. I like it."

"No, cruel would have been if I'd wound up and stepped into it. Think of a snapshot like the hockey version of kneecapping someone – it's supposed to be quick and fast and aimed for a corner of the net, but it's not the booming, all out laser that's heading for someone's head in front of the net," Fusco replied with a shrug, gently poking Provost with the blade of the hockey stick. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Reese take in a slow breath, wince and reflexively wrap an arm around his sore ribs. "You need a doctor?" the detective asked, real concern descending on his features.

John brought his arm down, flexing his hand into and out of a fist. He squared his shoulders and cringed when his spine gave a loud crack. "No. I've had worse."

"I'm sure you have. But I'm also guessing that this," Fusco began, waving hand around the arena and then towards Provost, "was a fighting first for you."

"In a manner of speaking," Reese said, folding the Kleenex over before he reapplied it to his nose. "I've never fought a hockey player on ice before," he admitted with a wave of his hand.

Lionel shook his head. "No, I think the correct term for a guy like him is 'enforcer'."

Reese reciprocated with a blank stare.

Fusco paused and let his eyes wander to the ceiling as he searched for an appropriate metaphor. He found Reese's perplexed gaze again and told the taller man, "If our merry band of psychopaths were a hockey team, you'd be our enforcer. You know, the guy who beats up anyone who threatens our teammates. Except normally, the enforcers don't scour the city looking for fights and are a little less…precise than you are. More punching, less shooting."

Reese craned his neck around to fix Fusco with disapproving stare. "Lionel, did you just call me overkill?"

The detective paused and then nodded emphatically. "Yep. Pretty sure I did. If the shoe fits, Reese…"

"Your closed case rate has doubled since we started working together – you should be thanking me," the ex-agent insisted through a thin, disapproving line of pursed lips.

Deadpanned, Fusco fired back, "Yeah, and so has my out of pocket expenditures on suits!"

"Your suits are awful, Detective. I'm doing the city a public service." Shifting, John looked straight over Fusco's head and shrugged, adding, "Still, I suppose it's fitting. Cops and referees – both are blind and deaf. You might as well dress like you can't see."

Lionel raised an eyebrow, the situation of one-upping Reese making him extraordinary bold. "A joke, Reese? You mean they let you guys have a sense of humor? I thought the CIA lobotomized that part of your brain."

Reese glared. "Keep pushing, and I'll show you that I'm also missing the part of my brain that lets me feel empathy for people I'm torturing."

Fusco held up a hand and ducked is chin, though he couldn't completely wipe the smirk from his mouth. At John's stilted movement, Lionel took two steps towards Reese and gave the man a quick nod. "You gonna make it to the bench there, Chief?"

Reese fixed Fusco with a disapproving glare. "I'll be fine," he insisted, though the careful movement spoke otherwise.

"Whatever you say," Fusco replied, grinning, as Reese grabbed the dasher board on the bench. Stepping up behind the ex-CIA agent, Lionel added, "You know, you of all people should appreciate hockey. It's fast, brutal and unforgiving. Kind of like you."

Reese's smooth gait hitched just a teeny bit. He turned his head just enough so Fusco could see his face in profile. Letting just the barest hint of a smile pull at the corner of his mouth, he looked down at the detective and parroted, "'Kind of like me'?"

"Well, yeah. It was meant to be a compliment. Unless, you don't know how to take those, either?"

"Depends," John replied, turning his entire body to face the detective.

"On what?"

Reese titled his head down and to the left the way he often did the moment directly preceding his first punch. "Depends on if I'm about to kill you."

"Okay, you do remember that I just saved your ass here, right?" Lionel half-exclaimed, throwing up his hands. Muttering under his breath, the detective added, "Next time, I'll just let the bastard beat you to a bloody pulp."

"I didn't say I wasn't grateful, detective. In fact, I think you should teach me."

"I should teach you? Hockey?" Fusco asked, pointing towards his own chest.

"Hockey," Reese confirmed. "It sounds…interesting. And Finch does say I need a hobby other than shooting people."

Fusco nodded, an approving look creeping slowly across his face. He clapped Reese on the shoulder and said, "I hear the Bruins are good. We could take a road trip. I'm sure Lee would love it."

John shrugged. "Boston?"

"Boston," Fusco agreed. "But you can't kneecap anyone. Or start any fights. Or assault the guy that brings the beer to our seats. If I get barred from TD Bank Garden because of you, there will be hell to pay. And I really won't care if you can kill me sixteen different ways with a paper clip, it'll be on like Donkey Kong."

"If someone shoots at me, I'm going to shoot back." John said, straightening his jacket as he turned to walk away.

Lionel grabbed Reese's bicep, spinning the taller man around. "Look, for once, can't you leave your trusty Sig at home and go for something that's not gonna leave holes in the other guy? It'll save me a ton of paperwork and a lot of bullshitting."

Reese bobbed his head back and forth. "It's worth a shot," he said, pausing. "After all, I suppose I do owe you."

Definitely not his best day.

But most certainly not his worst, either.

**-FIN-**


End file.
